


Want

by dark_descent



Series: Getting to Know You [1]
Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, F/F, explicit stuff y’all, had to rethink their whole dynamic after 3x08, now they are just really soft for each other, post 3x08, pure unadulterated smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-04
Updated: 2020-06-04
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:28:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24526888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dark_descent/pseuds/dark_descent
Summary: What happens after that night at the bridge.
Relationships: Eve Polastri/Villanelle | Oksana Astankova
Series: Getting to Know You [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1790680
Comments: 54
Kudos: 461





	Want

Two months.

It has been two months since the night at the bridge.

Two months during which you've met four times.

Stolen dinners somewhere in-between, a moment when you pressed her up against the wall in the hotel room, fire in your fingertips. One beautiful moment when you kissed her, over and over again. Until your lips were swollen. Until her breath was hot and heavy, and ragged in your ears. Until finally, you could face the unknown that lay waiting for both of you.

But none of those were dates. Not per your count anyway.

You start counting from the first time you stuttered the words, "Will you go on a date with me?" swallowing against the lump of anxiety in your throat, while her head rested on your shoulder as you both watched a terrible French movie. Her suggestion. You could barely keep your eyes on the screen when she was this close to you.

She just looked at you and smiled, a shy smile that seems to come from a delicate corner of her heart. Her voice was quiet when she answered, a soft little "yes," almost breathless, before she caught herself, a look of surprise in her eyes, and repeated it, louder, stronger, more confident.

"Yes."

You realize at that moment, that slight breadth of a second, that the scales of your life were finally, finally equal. Your past on the one side. Your future on the other. And how every moment since, and every moment ahead, is laden with her, with Villanelle. And you'll laugh. A happy laugh. A content laugh.  
Despite the chill of the night, you'll go to bed, with her spooning you, feeling warm with the promise of a delicious unknown.

There'd been five dates after that first one. In between dates, there were … encounters.

There are nights when you don't leave the hotel room and order room service while watching whatever movie the two of you can agree on for the night.

And always. Always—what begins as a quiet night in slowly, slowly ends with the two of you tangled in each other, struggling for some last bit of self-control, chests heaving with the effort to bring fresh air into your lungs after so long sharing the same breaths.

You walk around with lips that are almost permanently bruised, permanently "just been kissed," and the flush of arousal that creeps up your chest, that colors your neck and cheeks and even your ears is almost always visible.

You constantly ache for her. For Villanelle. For this woman who has taken over your thoughts and your life.  
God, you ache for her.

Sometimes it's this heavy wanting that comes from deep within you. And other times, it's the loss of her as you pull your mouth away from hers, your hands from her hair, and feel Villanelle do the same. Because it's never enough.

Never.

There have only been six dates. But there have been countless hours of exploring each other mentally.  
Emotionally.  
Physically.

You know the sound she makes when your hand accidentally brushes over her tight, tight nipple, even through the fabric of her bra, her shirt. You've held yourself precariously over her on the couch in the hotel room, and shuddered with the effort to keep from lowering your body back down onto hers, and you've felt your fingers curl, and clench, as you struggle not to pull her back into you, to pull her back to where she was pressing you against the wall, the floor, and let her keep going.

You've felt yourself hover on the brink with her and never once let yourself topple over.  
You are never one to exercise, but lately, you've got into the habit of running for miles to run the heat out of your body, running yourself exhausted until sleep is the only thing on your mind. Your showers now are quick and icy as you try to shock your nerves into submission.

You want her. You know it. You're just … it's just …This is new for you. All of it.

You'd slept with Niko on the first date. Way back when you were still thinking about running away from all your mother's expectations and your fears of not being enough.

But with Villanelle, you're cautious. You're unsure.

And it's not because she's a woman. You may not have always understood it, you may not have always had the words, but you've known for years that you are attracted to women. That the sight of a woman could sometimes make something dangerously close to desire pool low and liquid in your belly.  
You've felt it for years but wrote it off as nothing, as immaterial to who you were.

But then there was Villanelle.  
She was interested in you, wanted you. All of you. The broken parts of you and the whole ones. This woman who recognized the darkness in you.  
Villanelle has changed everything. Or maybe Villanelle just opened the door to who you always were, the person you were always supposed to be.  
Before the parents, the men, the job, the losses.  
Maybe, of all the gifts that Villanelle has given you, the greatest of them was the gift of you, of letting you be yourself. Just Eve. No demands and no expectations.  
Just you.

You're on new ground with her. Entirely new territory. Nothing with anyone in your past felt as deep, as welcome. Nothing ever has. Not even, and you've thought about this for a while, not even the women you remember having secret, hidden desires for.

No one has ever made you feel the way Villanelle does. The way she makes you feel with just a look, just the slightest touch of her fingers to your palm. The way your name in her mouth sounds.

There have been six dates, yes.

But tonight, you're ready to cut through the rope that's been holding you to shore, to the old and familiar.

Tonight you're ready to cast off with her, to take a leap of faith, to be with her, body and mind, heart and soul.

************************

The knock at the door surprises you. Eve's not supposed to be here for another two hours—you've just landed in London and barely have had the time to get ready for your date tonight. It's probably room service.

The plan was to have dinner across town and then go dancing. For someone who has always hated dancing, you seem to enjoy it every time you do it with Eve. You are craving the chance to hold her close to you, without crossing any unspoken lines.

You promised yourself to go slow, to listen, and most importantly, not to hurt her. Never again. Every time you find yourself needing to touch her, to feel her skin, you pull back. You put some distance between your bodies, try to gain some semblance of control amid the heat and the desire. You want to memorize every scar and every freckle. You want to drive her crazy with desire when you run your fingers behind her knee.  
You want to make her blood rush, but you can't. Not yet. She's not ready.

You know she wants you. It's apparent in the way you feel her pulse quicken as you kiss her, the way she nips at you, teeth and tongue, and heat. You know it from the way her hands explore your body, the way they travel down your arms, grasping at your hips. You know from the way she hugs you as you lay on the couch, the way her hips roll against you, the shy smile when she catches you staring at her lips.

She feels it, but you don't know if she's ready. And that decision, the crossing of that line, it has to be hers.

And hers alone.

************************

You open the door, and there she is, Eve. She is way too early and most definitely not dressed for dinner or for dancing.

She is just standing there in a pair of black leggings and an oversized sweatshirt under her heavy winter coat. Her hair is all messy, and you feel your heart trip a little.

"Hi," she says as you stand and stare at her. She's showered recently, you can tell, her hair looks a little damp and unruly. You can also see that she started to get ready for your date tonight. But then, for some reason, she stopped. Stopped and rushed over to you.

"Hi," she says again, and the tremble in her voice brings you back into the moment.

"Hi," you answer back, and move so she can come in, "What happened? Our reservations aren't until seven."

But instead of answering, she kisses you. She tangles her fingers in your hair and walks you back into the room, mouth working against your own as you go. Before you can get a word out, she has you pressed up against the wall while her tongue darts and twists in your mouth, and one hand settles against your hip, tracing the curve of your body there, intimately. Possessively.

"Eve," you gasp, trying to catch the breath she stole right out of you, and bring your hands up to her shoulders, "Eve, babe stop. Hold on."

And after a moment, after another kiss, and another, and one more, she stops. Steps back and gives you a moment to breathe, to draw in a shuddering breath that does nothing to ease the burning in your lungs. She's far enough away that your bodies are no longer touching, but every point where you could feel her warmth against you feels the loss. Feels the ache and the itch of wanting her back pressed up tightly against you again.

But for both your sakes, you need a moment. You need to collect your thoughts and catch your breath and get your body under control so that you can find the strength to make sure this doesn't go too far.

"Eve," you whisper, drinking in the sight of her. Hair mussed, where you ran your fingers through and scratched at the base of her neck. The slightest swelling of her bottom lip from where you may have gotten a little too excited, and let your teeth catch against the delicate flesh there. She's beautiful. Cheeks flushed, the slightest tremble in her fingers as she struggles not to touch you.

"Eve," you start, "what—"

But she interrupts you.

"I'm done, Villanelle," she says, "I'm done pretending that it's enough to just touch you and kiss you. I don't want to spend another night imagining what you taste like," she states softly, "I'm also really tired of taking cold showers," she laughs, but you can hear the tremble in her voice.

You hesitate to get your hopes up. You need to be absolutely sure that this is what she wants. You need to know that she's doing this because she wants to and not because she thinks you need her to.

"Eve," you say, and reach out to brush a wisp of hair from her eyes, "are you sure? We don't have to—if you don't feel like going out, we can just stay in and—"

But she interrupts you once again with her lips, swallowing your words and the last threads of your self-control.

"Villanelle," she says in-between nips at your mouth, "I want you. All I'll be thinking about if we go out to dinner is how to get you alone with me. I don't want to go dancing and feel you up against me in a crowd of a hundred people, and not be able to do anything about it."

Her voice steady and unwavering as she shimmies out of her pants. "I want to feel your skin against mine," she continues as she inches a hand up and under your t-shirt and scratches gently at your belly button, "with nothing between us. I want to feel you under me, and on top of me. I want to sleep with you, have sex with you. I want to fuck you, and I want you to fuck me."

Your mouth goes dry as she ghosts the words over the skin of your neck before latching on, attaching her lips to that spot just behind your ear. You know she can feel the shudder that ripples through you at the feel of her lips and tongue on your skin, but you could not care less.

You've wanted her since the moment you saw her in that bathroom, ages ago it feels like. She was everything you dreamed of. Everything you couldn't have. And now you have her right in front you, telling you how much she wants you.

************************

"Trust me," she says, her voice soft, but unyielding, velvet and steel.

She steps into you, kissing your lips gently at first, cautiously. One last chance for you to hold back, to slow her down, to starve the fire she was building inside of you. But you can't.

She backs you against the wall once again, and suddenly her hands and mouth are everywhere. Fingers in your hair, on your neck, up under your shirt to knead at the heavy flesh of your breast. Her mouth, burning a trail over your face, from your lips to your cheek, the line of your jaw, that place just under your ear where her tongue brushed as it curls and licks and flicks at your earlobe.

Your hands are on her before you even give them permission before you even remember what you want to do to her. You pull her in closer, your palms groping at the round softness of her ass, feeling the fabric of her underwear, the only barrier between the pads of your fingers and the heat of her flesh.

You lift a hand to pull her roving mouth back to your own, and you fit your lips against hers. You've kissed her before. You've spent hours exploring the curve of her lips, the sensitive crook of her grin. You've tasted her tongue, you've felt the warmth of her breath spill into your mouth. But nothing compares to this. To the fierceness of her kisses, the determination of her mouth against yours, the desperation in the way she nips at your bottom lip, slipping her tongue inside the wet heat of your mouth to wrestle with your own.  
It is intoxicating. She is intoxicating.

Suddenly your legs can't hold you anymore, the wave of sensation at feeling her body against yours, her lips against yours, her hands upon your skin makes you dizzy. Your knees tremble, and hands shake as you pull them away from her and curl them into fists.

"Eve," you whisper into her ear, "Eve, I can't, I'm going to—"

But she feels the way you tremble, the way you can't quite keep your desire under control, and she smiles. "You okay there?" she asks, the pleased smile on her face betraying her innocent tone. She knows exactly what she's doing to you.

"Let's move this somewhere—," she starts.

But you interrupt to finish the thought. "—bed," you say, "let's move this to bed."

You want to see her on your bed, you want to see the way her skin contrasts against the deep maroon of the bedsheets. You want to see her spread out in the center of your bed to see if she looks as perfect there, as at home, as she does in all your fantasies. All your dreams.

But she pulls you forward, and walks back into the room, before pushing you down onto the big, soft couch. It's a couch perfect for laying together and exchanging slow, lazy kisses while you each get brave and braver with your hands.

She pushes you down into it so that you're sitting down, head thrown back against the pillowed cushion behind you, and feet planted firmly on the floor. And you just look up at her, her red cheeks, the blush of arousal that stains her neck, disappearing under the soft fabric of her shirt.  
She's beautiful. She's yours.

"Take this off," she says and pulls at the jeans you slipped on when you heard the knock at the door. They come off quickly, and she tosses them behind the couch.

And then she looks down at you. Looks down at you, at the arm, you have up behind your head, and the other, lightly stroking the skin behind her knees. For a moment, her mouth goes slack, and you feel the wanting all the way in the most secret places deep inside you. The pull of it, the gravity of how intensely she wants you.

It's written all over her face, it's engraved in the way she licks her lip, the way her fingers clench, just waiting to feel your skin again.  
She wants you. She's almost lost in her wanting.

Fuck if that doesn't make your blood burn. If that doesn't make your heart race. Fuck if that's not the sexiest thing you've ever seen.

You reach out for her hands to pull her down onto you. But she resists and begins taking off your shirt instead.

"I want to see you," Eve says, and pulls.

You're bare beneath the t-shirt, your bra discarded into the hamper when you hopped into the shower to start getting ready for tonight's date, and you inhale sharply as the cold air of the room hits your nipples.

She leaves the t-shirt bunched up around your neck while she looks at you. While she drinks your fill. It's the first time she's seen your breasts. It's a line the two of you haven't crossed before.

Eve crosses it now. She straddles you and takes the warm weight of your breasts into her hot hands. Her touch—you wonder for a moment if tomorrow you'll find the lines of her fingerprints burned into your skin. And then she's rolling your nipples under her thumbs, rolling and pinching, just the slightest, until they're hard and aching under her touch.  
You can't stop yourself from arching your back, arching into her. Into her hands at your breasts. Into the weight of her against you in your lap. And she smiles at you. Wide and free. She smiles at you, and you recognize something dangerous, something delightful in her expression.

Still, though, it takes you by surprise when she lowers her head. When she lifts your breast, just the slightest and brings your nipple into her mouth. The gentle rasp of her tongue over the tip of your breast, the warm wet heat of her mouth, the playful tug as she wraps her lips around the tight bud and sucks.

You throw your head back against the couch as your world shrinks down to this room, this couch, Eve straddling you, and the pleasure she's kindling inside of you.

"Fuck, Eve," you say, and run your hands through her hair to catch her eyes as she works her mouth over your breast.

Cold air settles over your wet breast as she slowly pulls away, and for a minute, you're afraid that you've upset her, that she's stopping. But then she lowers her head again and takes up your other breast. And the combination of feeling, the cool evening air over the one, the inferno of her mouth on the other, it's almost painful.

You know she's never done this before, not with a woman at least, and still, she's got your hips rolling and your eyes fluttering and your pulse racing.

You lay your hands on the small of her back, just up under her sweatshirt. Just over the elastic band of her underwear.  
You can feel how she arches, just the slightest, into your touch, and it emboldens you. You slip your fingers past her waistband until your palms each rest atop the soft, firm flesh of her ass.

Eve moans into your breast as you begin to roll and knead as you begin to massage the muscles beneath your hands.

"No," she says, as you try to slip off the pair of black cotton underwear she's wearing, as you try and slide them down over her hips and past her thighs, "no."  
She gives a final nip at your breast and lifts her head, reaching back to cover your hands with her own.  
"No," she says again, "not yet. I want you first."

Her skin flushes just the slightest as she looks at you with open, honest eyes. Electricity sparks through every part of your body, hot and white. Straight down into your wet, wet center.  
You nod, understanding her meaning. You nod and try to remember, try to think back. You've slept with your fair share of women, some experienced, some not. But this feels the most monumental.

"Okay," you answer, "but if … just—" you trail off. There is nothing to say. She wants you, and you want her back. Desperately.  
And she wants to explore you first, to learn you first. The beauty of that, it wrecks you.

She doesn't say anything. She takes your shirt off and ties them loosely around your wrists. You are trapped now, and desire cuts through you like a white-hot knife.  
And then she pulls at your underwear again, urging you to lift your hips, to help as she slides them down and past your thighs. And you do.  
She kisses you again, soft and wet, slanting her mouth against yours and taking.

You're so wrapped up in the kiss, you almost don't notice her hand sneaking down your side. How it pauses to play over the lines of your ribcage, the curve of your hip. How it stops, just hovers right over the light patch of hair above your sex, combing through it gently.  
And then her fingers dip gingerly, cautiously into the wet, wet, wetness of your sex. Gliding over your hard, aching clit. Swirling to gather up your arousal, to slick over you as she thrusts her tongue into your mouth, and draws it out again.

The pad of her finger taps gently over the tip of your clit before she adds another and begins to stroke, hard and slow, over the sensitive skin surrounding it.

She works you up so quickly, and soon you're gasping for breath, pulling your lips away so you can gulp in enough air to warn her how close you are.

She smiles and bites at her bottom lip. She's this gorgeous mix of cocky and nervous, and if you weren't struggling to thrust up into her hand, into her body, you'd think it was the most adorable thing you've ever seen. But you can barely think. Your hands tremble as you ache to run them all along her skin.

Suddenly your lap is empty, suddenly the warm weight of her is gone.  
She stands over you, in the vee of your legs, and kisses the top of your forehead before slowly dropping down to her knees before you, leaving a trail of kisses down your body as she does.

Your lips, your collarbone.  
The top of your breast, a nipple. Runs her tongue across the mole right between your breasts.  
Kisses your ribs, belly button, runs her tongue along the length of the scar just above your hip, leaving you burning.  
Your mind catches up, reads her intention.

"Eve," you say, a whisper, "you don't have to, I mean—"

But she stops you with a finger to your lips. "I know," she answers you, slowly running her fingers along the inside of your thigh, "but I want to."

She looks at you, eyes bright and shining.

"I want to, Villanelle," she says again, and smiles, biting just the slightest at her bottom lip. And then she slowly kisses her way from your knee up, up your leg. Up until her mouth is hovering over your wet, dripping sex. She slides her hands under your thighs and pulls you forward, right into her, and then gently parts your folds.

"God, Villanelle," she whispers, and you're not even sure if she knows she's spoken, "you're beautiful."

And then delicately, softly, she lays her tongue flat against you. Just covers you with her mouth—your pussy, your clit, your lips, everything. Just getting a feel for you. Tasting you. Your wetness. You know how turned on you are, you can smell your arousal all the way up by you.

And then you lose the ability to think as Eve starts to move her tongue, starts to swipe with hungry licks over your clit. The heat of it, the rasp against your most sensitive flesh. Each long, slow lick is punctuated with playful teasing of the tip of her tongue over the tip of your clit.

She alternates between firm pressure and light, barely-there touches. Between fast and furious, and slow and deliberate. She builds up a beautiful rhythm of contrasts that has you struggling not to buck up into her mouth, to reach down and hold her head in place as you thrust against her tongue.

You feel yourself begin to tremble, to shake, and you wonder if she can tell how close you are, if she can feel your control slipping away. But when her tongue stops its stroking, when she gently wraps her lips around your hard, pulsing clit and suckles, just the slightest, you know. She knows.

Her tongue teases again over the tip of your clit as she applies that constant pressure, and suddenly you're coming. Suddenly you feel the tense wire within you snap, and everything goes slack. You can feel yourself flood over her mouth, her chin. Can feel your arousal spread beneath you as she continues to work her mouth over your clit, to ride you through the contractions, the sensations, until it's too much, and you free your hands from their binds and tap at her shoulder, gasping.

You almost come again when you feel her tongue slip along your folds, dip into the burning heat of your pussy to clean away your arousal, all the evidence of what she's done to you, to your body.  
As you pant and struggle to slow down your breathing, she finally lifts her head, her face glistening, and a wicked smile on her face, as she stretches up to kiss your lips, still covered in you.

"Now that's a date," she says, collapsing onto the couch next to you, waiting for you to recover.

You laugh and cough; your lungs not quite used to breathing again yet. Just another minute or two, you think, and then it's your turn.

************************

You have no idea how much time has passed. It could be minutes. It could be hours. You wake with a start when you hear an ambulance whizzing past on the street outside. You wake up to find Eve curled into you, her head resting on your breast. You fell asleep. Eve gave you an orgasm powerful enough to knock you out. The thought makes you laugh out loud.

You kiss the top of her head, nuzzling your nose in her hair until you feel her slowly wake up and look at you, a lazy smile on her face.

You start slow. Kissing Eve's lips, keeping your eyes locked with her, watching for any sign of discomfort. But the more you try to slow your pace, the more desperate you are to explore, to taste, to feel Eve's heat against your tongue.

"You're so beautiful," you whisper as you nip and lick and suckle your way down. Pausing here and there when you discover a spot that makes Eve moan, that makes her arch her back, that makes the leg wrapped around your waist tremble and shake. Until Eve's legs rest over your shoulders, and she grips your hands tightly.

"Eve," you whisper, asking for permission to continue.

It's a strangled "Villanelle–please," that spurs you on.

You place gentle kisses to the soft flesh of Eve's inner-thigh and whisper into her skin, "I'm going to make you feel so good."

You will never forget the first taste of her sex. So wet, so warm. A scent so heady and almost sweet.

You smile into her belly, the light patch of hair tickling at your nose, and glance up to where a set of eyes watch you, eyes drunk with desire and want. And then carefully, tenderly, you part her lips, thumbs drawing them back to reveal the swollen, rosy flesh hidden between.

Eve's clit peeks out from its hood, and below, the lips of her sex are thick with her desire and glistening with her need.

First, a kiss. The softest brush of your lips over the aching head of Eve's clit.

And then, you draw her into your mouth, tongue teasing over the top as your lips close over the root of the hard shaft.

Almost immediately, her thighs clamp tightly around your ears, and you can feel strong fingers at the back of your head, tangling in your hair.

You drag your tongue up and down her clit, lingering just under the head, that spot that you quickly discover has Eve thrusting up into your mouth every time you brushed past it.

Up and down, back and forth, you lave your tongue at her sensitive flesh, feeling it twitch under your tongue, feeling it slip back under its swollen hood as Eve's heels dig into your back, your shoulders.

She's gasping for breath up at the head of the couch, and you know–it's time.

You draw wide circles around the shaft of her clit, and bring your hand, a single finger extended, to her soaked entrance.  
And as you enter her, as you slip a long, slim finger inside, Eve lifts her hips to welcome you inside.

"Fuck, Vill-" she says, gasping, struggling to keep herself still, to keep from riding your hand with abandon. It's all the sign you need.

You add another finger, thrusting firmly, steadily, into her.

Within minutes, Eve's gasps and moans have become incomprehensible. Just a steady stream of sound as she clenches her thighs around your head, as she arches up into the night air, as her body grips and tries to hold your thrusting fingers deep within her.

And then, feeling the impending quake echo up and out from deep within her body, you seek out Eve's hard clit again. And with one-two–firm flicks of your tongue along the hard, aching length of it, and a deliberate curl of your fingers, you bring her over the edge.

She cries out your name. Oksana. Not Villanelle. Oksana. Your name has never sounded sweeter than it does at that moment, falling from Eve's trembling, gasping lips, and you trip headfirst into love. All over again.

************************

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Feedback would be greatly appreciated!


End file.
